As part of a school-wide activity centered around the wonderful garden we have and the novel Seedfolks by Paul Fleischman, my homeroom planted their own little "crops" a few weeks ago. In tiny 1 x 1 starter cells, each student had the choice of corn, beans, pumpkins, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, or sunflowers. I explained in advance that some plants germinate sooner than others and that we would transplant to larger pots as needed. I also told them, quite clearly, that I was planting beans because they grow the fastest, but mine was the lone bean in the plot.
I knew this from back when I, too, was in middle school. Then, for some science project or another, my mother showed us how to grow beans in a mason jar by simply wadding up a damp paper towel and sprinkling beans liberally in the folds. In a couple of weeks? We had a plant to rival any sweet potato or avocado pit skewered with toothpicks and submerged in its own jar.
This year, in my classroom, the sunflowers poked their spring green sprouts up in just a couple of days, but they were soon followed by the pumpkins. "Be patient," I advised the other students, "your seeds will grow." The cucumbers and corn were next, but my bean was not far behind.
By the time the tomatoes made their appearance, the early sprouters needed larger pots. The pepper farmers were getting a little discouraged, so I brought in my warming mat to encourage their seeds to join the party. Fortunately they have, and so our springfest can begin in earnest.
The other students are just as fascinated by our plants as we are. They wander over to the window in spare moments to check on them. "What is that huge one?!?" someone demanded today.
"It's a bean," I told him.
"It's the best one!" he said. "Who planted it?"
"Me," I answered, and perhaps there was just a trace of self-satisfaction in my tone, because he raised his eye brows at me suspiciously.
"Don't the other ones get any fertilizer?" he asked.
I knew this from back when I, too, was in middle school. Then, for some science project or another, my mother showed us how to grow beans in a mason jar by simply wadding up a damp paper towel and sprinkling beans liberally in the folds. In a couple of weeks? We had a plant to rival any sweet potato or avocado pit skewered with toothpicks and submerged in its own jar.
This year, in my classroom, the sunflowers poked their spring green sprouts up in just a couple of days, but they were soon followed by the pumpkins. "Be patient," I advised the other students, "your seeds will grow." The cucumbers and corn were next, but my bean was not far behind.
By the time the tomatoes made their appearance, the early sprouters needed larger pots. The pepper farmers were getting a little discouraged, so I brought in my warming mat to encourage their seeds to join the party. Fortunately they have, and so our springfest can begin in earnest.
The other students are just as fascinated by our plants as we are. They wander over to the window in spare moments to check on them. "What is that huge one?!?" someone demanded today.
"It's a bean," I told him.
"It's the best one!" he said. "Who planted it?"
"Me," I answered, and perhaps there was just a trace of self-satisfaction in my tone, because he raised his eye brows at me suspiciously.
"Don't the other ones get any fertilizer?" he asked.
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